


healing is everyday work

by writevale



Series: and here you are making gold out of it [10]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Pre-S5, Safehouse Fluff, Sleepy morning kisses and cuddles, Tea as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24866467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: Waking up a tired Archivist is both easier and harder than it might seem.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: and here you are making gold out of it [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657546
Comments: 32
Kudos: 309





	healing is everyday work

**Author's Note:**

> title from the sun and her flowers by rupi kaur

In their haste to escape the frigid claws of the cottage's draught, one of them, or perhaps both, forgot to close the curtains last night. It's this mistake that permits Martin the warm delight of waking up to the weak rays of Scottish sunshine on his face as they creep through the window and shimmer through the dust motes hanging above the bed.

He yawns, rubbing his mouth and blurry eyes in turn, and pats the bedside table blindly until his fingers catch on the frame of his glasses.

'Mornin'.' He murmurs, turning for the first time to take in the relaxed form of the body heating the bed with him. It had been a pleasant surprise to learn that Jon is a particularly needy sleeper, limbs and fingers and, once, even vine-like tendrils of long hair, tend to wind themselves around Martin during the night. This morning is no different, Jon has an arm over Martin's stomach, fingers clenched tight around the hem of his T-shirt as though he is ensuring that Martin can't be stolen away while his guard is down. Jon doesn't stir at Martin's sleepy mumble, face slack against the pillow behind the curtain of his hair. He doesn't stir, even, as Martin runs his fingers through the dark hair on his arm, to delicately unpluck the grasping fingers from his T-shirt. For a man who spent so long in a coma . . . well, Martin would have thought maybe he would have had enough sleep for a lifetime.

_Although_ , he muses as he heeds the call of his bladder and slips out from under the covers, watching as Jon's eyelashes barely even flutter at the movement of the mattress. _The coma probably just about covers him for the sleep he lost before it. And I know he barely slept afterwards._

Bladder emptied, two steaming mugs of tea in hand and Martin is standing at the side of the bed, staring down at Jon with a bemused fondness as the door squeaks closed behind him. The mugs make a _clinkthump_ when they knock against each other as Martin sets them down. Jon has spread out in Martin's absence. A leg hooked out around an invisible waist. A hand, the raised keloid whorls achingly beautiful in the light, fisted into Martin's pillow. A shiver tickles the back of Martin's neck as he recalls what it feels like to have that hand tugging through his mop of hair instead. He pushes it away.

'Jon?' There's a gap between Jon's searching limbs and Martin sits down in it carefully. 'Jon.' Lying prone as Jon is, it should be the easiest thing in the world for Martin to stroke his hand down the length of Jon's back. His hand hovers an inch from the dark T-shirt that ripples as Jon breathes, deep and slow. This. This domesticity. This _thing_ between them, it's so new still.

Martin imagines his palm landing between the sharp points of Jon's scapulae and Jon freezing, whipping the bedsheets into a storm in his panicked haste to get away from his unseen assailant, and he folds his hands back into his lap.

'Jon?' He tries again, louder, 'I made you tea?'

That, apparently, is enough to stir some life into the Archivist. Unfortunately, he uses the dawn of consciousness to grumble unhappily and roll over to face the wall, effectively burying himself further into the nest of quilt made by Martin's absence. The bumps of his vertebrae stand out like the knots of a tree trunk as he curls in around himself. Martin covers his chuckle with a few freckled fingers as though Jon has eyes in the back of his head and laughs a little louder at the unhappy note wailed from the half-awake huddle of a man in their bed.

A hand, this one shot with a line of silver from an old incident with a _bread knife_ , scrambles free from the covers like a wild animal, a blind hunter skittering across the bedsheets before enclosing tight around Martin's wrist with a satisfied squeeze. Martin lets out a soft ' _oof_ ' of surprise as he's tugged back down onto the mattress and Jon's cocooned form wriggles backwards until his back hits Martin's chest and their bent knees slot perfectly together. Martin's lips twist into a surprised smile and, feeling flushed and silly, he can't think of anything better to do with them than to nuzzle into the fabric folds of Jon's oversized shirt and press a kiss to the line of his shoulder blade.

He waits. For Jon to stiffen up or shuffle away. Instead, he melts, grumble becoming more of a hum as the distance between his hunched shoulder and his ear stretches out in a long, relaxed sigh. The pincer-grip around Martin's wrist pulls until Martin has an arm slung the soft part of Jon's middle, between the bony poke of his ribcage and pelvis, and then lets him go. Martin's pulse throbs in his ears as they glow pink in the steadily growing light. Jon might be half-asleep but Martin burns with a realised closeness. The slide of Jon's fingers through his own is a needed reassurance that this is real and Martin is _wanted_ here.

He breathes quickly, sucking in the classically inoffensive smell of their cheap shampoo, before daring to kiss another spot on Jon's back. Then another. Then, another. He can't stop himself, adoring the rough tickle of cotton beneath his lips, the sleepy acquiescence of Jon's relaxing muscles beneath the fabric. He's still scared of crossing a line, of popping the happy bubble growing in the base of this throat, but Jon's fingers twitch around his own and he finds the courage to shuffle in closer and kiss the strip of bare skin between the collar of the shirt and Jon's recently shaven jawline. Martin lets it linger. He can feel the raised edge of another scar at the corner of his mouth. When Jon rumbles something sleepily, he feels the vibrations under his lips.

The mattress protests with a series of squeaks as Jon rolls inside the shelter of Martin's arms and fights with the sheets to hook a leg over Martin's. There's no way he's fully asleep now, but he's doing an admirable job of pretending as he tilts his face up towards Martin's, skin indented with creases from the pillow, eyelashes thick and fanned out across his cheeks.   


The sunlight hits a trailing loop of his hair, weaving flecks of gold into what is already a starry sky of black and silver, and Martin strokes it out of his face slowly. His heart stutters a staccato beat, much like the chirping of the birds outside, as he lets his fingers brush across Jon's forehead, his cheeks, down the bristly line of his jaw. He pretends not to see the minute curve of Jon's lips, there for less than a second before he orders them back into the relaxed line of sleep.

Jon's skin is soft and smooth where he kisses it. Martin hasn't learnt from his recent experience with Jon's back and soon finds himself peppering Jon's brow and cheek and every inch of available skin with feather-light kisses. A tickle of worry threatens their early-morning peace as he feels Jon's brow fold into a frown, but falls out of his mouth as a coughed laugh as Jon merely tilts his head back further, lips already pursed into a pout for Martin to kiss.

Martin is only too happy to oblige. His breath catches as he relishes the first dry press of their lips together. Martin knows he's a hopeless romantic, he _knows_ that, but, when he inches back to take in what he hopes will be a blissed out smile on his boyfriend's face, he could swear that the room has gotten a little brighter. A hopeless, aborted cry from the back of Jon's throat and Martin breathes out another laugh as Jon wriggles forward, lips pouted, for another kiss.

This time, Jon seems to think it's finally acceptable to give up on the pretence of sleep and winds his arms around Martin's neck, fingers coming to rest in the long tufts of coppery hair at the back of his head. He hums contentedly and Martin swallows against the persistent thud of the heart that hopes he will never get used to the feeling of Jon's smile against his own.

'Good morning.' He teases as Jon blinks. Jon's pupils constrict against the sudden light before dilating once more as he stares up at Martin's face. 'Finally awake, are we?' One of Jon's hands smooths down his back to his waist before squeezing to press their bed-warm bodies even closer together.

'I guess if you had to wake me up, then that was a fair way to do it.' His voice is a cat's tongue against Martin's eardrums, rough with affection. Martin wants to lean into the playful outrage brewing in his gut but there's something about the twinkle in Jon's eyes that makes it much easier to just kiss him instead.

'I made us tea but it's probably gone cold.' Martin laments. Jon shrugs in his arms.

'We have a microwave.'

'Jon!'

'What?' Jon's laugh is gravelly at this time in the morning. Martin wants to keep driving it out of him.

'You _\- heathen_.' Disgusted, Martin tries to roll over and check whether the temperature of their mugs is as cold as he fears but is stopped by a sudden attack of clinging arms and legs. Jon's nose bumps against his own and then there are a pair of delicate lips soft against the tip of it. Martin pretends he doesn't feel the kiss all the way to his toes. Pretends he isn't blushing.

'My point is, if the tea is no good already, there's no reason not to just . . . Stay. For a little while. If you wanted to.' Jon's hands slide upwards to cup Martin's cheeks. Martin smooths a recalcitrant strand of hair from Jon's forehead.

'Alright.' He says, 'Alright.'

**Author's Note:**

> I just . . . needed to write some fluff for these two. it's been a minute and I'm sad so tadaaa! hope you liked it  
> also, I'm on [tumblr](https://writevale.tumblr.com/) now so please come say hi!


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